


By the Word

by redscudery



Series: Scudery's Saturday Night Fic Fest [18]
Category: DICKENS Charles - Works, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dickens Kink, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Foot Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, Reading Aloud, References to Dickens, Sorry Not Sorry, blame the Victorianists, okay blame one particular Victorianist, reading kink, yes I really did say "Dickens kink"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-20
Updated: 2014-10-20
Packaged: 2018-02-21 23:04:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2485487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/pseuds/redscudery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John didn't think Sherlock would like Dickens.</p><p>And he's right. Sherlock doesn't like Dickens. But he certainly _enjoys_ Dickens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	By the Word

**Author's Note:**

  * For [doctornerdington](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctornerdington/gifts).



“You like Dickens, Sherlock?” John picks up the book that’s lying at Sherlock’s feet.  _Dombey and Son_.  
Sherlock doesn’t move from his prone position on the couch.  
“Not exactly.”  
“We did _A Christmas Carol_ in school. Awful stuff. He just goes on and on and on—paid by the word, he was, and it definitely shows.” John flips the book open and scans the pages.  
“Listen to this,” he says, “‘The weathercocks on spires and housetops were mysterious with hints of stormy wind,’ --unbelievable. --and pointed, like so many ghostly fingers, out to dangerous seas, where fragments of great wrecks were drifting, perhaps, and helpless men were rocked upon them into a sleep as deep as the unfathomable waters.’ Ridiculous tripe,” John exclaims, and snaps the book shut.  
“Mmph,” Sherlock responds, curling up and turning his back on John.  
“No, but seriously. Could he not just have said ‘It was stormy and the seas were dangerous’? There are just so many extra adjectives: ‘hints of stormy wind’, ‘unfathomable waters’. It’s like…Sherlock?” John suddenly realizes that Sherlock is not in his habitual pouting position. The usual petulant movements are absent. Instead, Sherlock is still, but not dangerously so; there is a trembling of curls that makes John think of Sherlock when he’s aroused.  
But why now?  
“Stop trying to deduce me.”  
“Why? Afraid I’ll figure out some dark secret even though you think,” John says, checking the book again, “that I have ‘not much leisure on the road for intellectual operations’?”  
At that, Sherlock’s body twitches, and he buries his head in the cushions.  
“Put the book down, John.” His voice is muffled.  
“And do what?” John grins. “I don’t think I should. I think I should read you a story.”  
“You are very tiresome.”  
“Oh, I don’t think so. Let me just get comfortable.” John perches on the arm of the couch closest to Sherlock’s feet, theatrically opens the book, and continues.  
”Rob having stared after the coach until it was as invisible as the pigeons had now become, sat down behind the desk with a most assiduous demeanour,—good Christ that’s wordy-and in order that he might forget nothing of what had transpired, made notes of it on various small scraps of paper, with a vast expenditure of ink.”  
“Ugh.”  
“That’s what I think, too.” John runs his foot along Sherlock’s leg, and Sherlock sighs. Aha. John cranes his neck to see if he can see the incontrovertible physical evidence of Sherlock’s arousal, but no luck. He clears his throat, sets his feet on Sherlock’s legs, and continues.  
“There was no danger of these documents betraying anything, if accidentally lost; for long before a word was dry, it became as profound a mystery to Rob, as if he had had no part whatever in its production.”  
When John finishes this sentence, Sherlock doesn’t moan, but he turns a little. His mouth is open and he’s flushed.  
“Want me to continue?”  
“If you must.”  
“I can stop.”  
“Please yourself.” For Sherlock, this is submission, and John grins.  
“While he was yet busy with these labours, the hackney-coach, after encountering unheard-of difficulties from swivel-bridges,”  
Here Sherlock turns even more and spreads his legs slightly. His silky pyjama bottoms are definitely distended.  
“…soft roads,”  
John takes advantage of this to slide his feet right up to the top of Sherlock’s thighs.  
“…impassable canals,”  
John’s foot ghosts over Sherlock’s cock, and Sherlock abandons his bored face, closing his eyes and arching his back, catlike.  
“…caravans of casks,”  
A jump under his foot. John makes his movement more purposeful.  
“…settlements of scarlet-beans”  
He lifts his foot away and watches Sherlock’s eyes fly open. When they do, he sets his foot back down before Sherlock can protest.  
“…and little wash-houses,”  
Sherlock’s hips start rocking. John is hardening himself now, feeling the pulse and heat of Sherlock at the sole of his feet.  
“…and many such obstacles abounding in that country, stopped at the corner of Brig Place.” He ends the sentence and shifts position, kneeling between Sherlock’s legs.  
“I can keep reading.”  
“No, please...” Sherlock trails off.  
“Had I known you enjoyed Dickens so much, I...”  
“John, your mouth.”  
“Very well, Gradgrind. I see it’s Hard Times for you.”  
“JOHN.”  
John bends to take Sherlock’s dripping cock in his mouth, and soon neither of them is saying anything at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Text of Dombey & Son by Charles Dickens from Gutenberg.org


End file.
